I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Fat Free Milk...

I guess I’m going to have to give up real writing. It seems like all I can do now is this fake stuff or the off the top of my head or the kind of planned topical crappy crap. Even though I have somebody waiting on screenplays from me.

It sucks. I need to get back to writing in notebooks if I still have a chance.

It would be hard to make a fortune doing this type of crap. It’s a dime a dozen. Short stories might work considering that I find them easier to write than bigger projects but I generally don’t like reading short stories. I think, because short stories seem like a cheating investment. Usually by the time you’re involved, the story’s over – and that always sucks. It’s probably just me. You can’t knock Twain, King, Hem, Carver and others. Who IS best known for brilliant short stories? I’ll ask around sooner or later.

How did I get so fucking lazy? Not only in writing but also in my life? Didn’t I used to be a lot more motivated? Yes, I was younger – but maybe I was sicker, though. You tend to spin frantically when you’re sicker in the head. More comes out of you too when you’re not that balanced. I used to write major amounts and now I write practically nothing. What happened? Does this mean that I really wont ever write The Great American Novel? Does this mean that I better get a real job soon because I have nothing else going for me? I’ve tried to stop calling myself a writer because now I feel like I’m lying. I need to start hanging around creative people again. Maybe I’ll just call Joel out of the blue and write a play with him. That would be nice. He’s older too, and yes, I used to hang around creative, older people all of the time but they all moved away and got in horrible fights with each other in between their bouts of candle-lit, poetry-reading madness. They all ended up leaving each other, fucking each other, moving out of state or just getting plain old.

Yeah, maybe I will call Joel. I saw him tonight. He stopped by the bar when I was working tonight. He told me what books he was reading. I only have a couple friends who still talk to me about that – but they’re both insane. This guy writes for a good magazine and writes plays at the local theatre too. I might’ve mentioned that. He likes booze too. That’s always good. You better like booze if you like books. Just because. You just better.

Oh man. I’ve got this impending feeling of doom that’s been hanging over me lately. It’s making me nervous and paranoid. It’s making me scared. I don’t want to answer the phone or open mail. Does this mean that it’s all financially motivated then? I don’t look forward to the end of the year. All new parties or activities, trips, etc. piss me off because that just means that it’s another obligatory social event that will further prevent me from digging myself out of my hole.

What happened to walking? My car depresses me because I don’t take care of it. Weather isn’t the same either because of my car and it’s widow that doesn’t roll up.

Am I really depressed or am I just...what do they call it? What do they call it when you try to trade in a car but you end up owing more than it’s worth now or something like that? I’m kind of like that right now. In over my head in life and certain sense of value or worth had decreased.

Is it depreciation or my great depression?

Declination or a lack of direction?

Declension?

Disparity?

Da gooch beat me up Mr. Drummond.

I refuse to get up to tell the cat to be fucking quiet – but I will get up for a fucking cigarette because I feel like I really need one right now.

See? That’s what I need. I need to write with the quickness and ferocity of one that does right before getting up to go outside and smoke. Hummingbird fingertips. I think my brain is haunted. I don’t feel good right now. Sleep won’t do it. Nothing will. Nothing will, except sunlight coming over the horizon. Maybe Empire Strikes Back playing on the TV as I slowly and laboriously drift into my usual light and seldom interrupted sleep.

I need to do five responsible things tomorrow and five things that are good for me. Organizing comic books makes me feel good. I can walk to the bank. I came up with a new band name tonight thanks to Sarah Brown. I can open up the garage and pull out all of the old notebooks. Maybe not. I need to clean my room. I can start to paint pictures. I can make a bill list. I can sell comics on ebay. I can drink and write all day. I cannot turn on the computer. I can try not to turn on the TV or the computer. I can stop by every store in downtown. I can drink in every bar in downtown. I can play video games all day. I can search for jobs online. I can make something out of little pieces of junk and superglue. I can write a Christmas list. I can smoke and then will be back. I can.